my hands, white from the chill

turn black against the rising sun

heavy with nothingness

the way a tower bears the weight of its bricks

this is not time

but the end of time    falling into

the small of your hand—     

curved      shadow on the half moon

as day bleeds into night and night into day

my consciousness is not broken from yours

in this union—     temperance, forbearance

two days of chanting

the sound becomes a bridge

made richer by the chasm beneath